Page 3 of Rhet

“Don’t do it Rhet!” Jasper shouts

“Think of Greece and the knockers that come with it,” Tarek adds. I shake my head and chuckle, before walking through the door leaving them on the verandah. All plans of Greece pushed out of my head.

Five thousand square feet of polished floor stretched before me. The cobalt blue walls glowed from three crystal chandeliers hanging from the gold leaf covered ceilings. Gardenia and lemon perfumed the air, the smell, was in my mother’s eyes, the epitome of elegance.

People standing on the edge of the ballroom vie for my attention, but I nod and pass by as I make my way to my father’s office.

Davis opens the heavy oak door, and the faces of seven men greet me in the room. They all stop talking to watch at me as I enter.

“There he is,” Mr. Prescott, Dax’s father comes forward to shake my hand. His blond hair shines under my father’s dim office lights.

My friend’s dads’ all crowd me, shaking my hands and appearing to congratulate me. The only thing is, I’m clueless as to why.

“If only Jasper were more like you, I could die a happy man,” Mr. Remington extols.

Smoke from the various cigars makes the room cloudy. Without the smoke, you would be able to see the tapestries hanging from the wall, and the distressed thickly stuffed padded chairs.

My father stands behind his sturdy oak desk, one hand in his pocket the other holding his cigar. His jacket hangs on the back of the chair.

“I’m doing everything in my power to have Cole settle down,” Mr. Wildingham snips the cap off his cigar, and then takes a seat in the leather wingback chair. “However, my son is a fucking man-whore.”

Mr. Fairisles sits on the dark green tuffed chair. Like his son Tarek, he usually observes what’s going on before he decides to speak.

“Tarek doesn’t want to be a Quarter Master like me or go into politics,” Mr. Fairisles complains, running his fingers through his thick silver hair.

“What does he want to do?” My father asks with a grimace.

“He wants to be a pastry chef,” Mr. Fairisles scoffs. “After all the money I invested in his Ivy league education, he wants to learn how to make fucking crepes.” The vein on his forehead stands up, looking like it was about to pop.

“Not in this fucking house,” My father replies as he shakes his head.

What’s that supposed to mean? Would he not support my being a pastry chef if that’s what I wanted?

Before I could respond, Barrett hits my shoulder and squeezes my arm. “Are you coming down to St. Mary’s orphanage next week. We are painting the wall outside.”

I smile, thinking about all the good Barrett brings to Lakeshore. “I’d love to, Mr. Barrett. What day?”

“Call me Desmond, and Sunday is fine, Rhet.” Mr. Barrett looks at my dad as he beams with pride. “This is a fine boy you have, Henry.”

“That he is,” My father replies as he pulls on his cigar and exhales.

Mr. Barrett continues to talk but my mind is lost in the contrast of Mr. Barrett and the other six men around me. Where they are all dressed in expensive tailored made tuxedos, he is in a simple black suit and black tie. He is also the only one in the room not drinking or smoking. If I were to describe Desmond Barrett to anyone, I would say if Santa were into politics, it would look like him. The white beard and kind eyes only add to Mr. Barrett’s approachable demeanor.

“Rhet, Carson is talking to you.” My father brings me back to the present.

“I’m sorry. What was that Mr. Carson?”

Carson glares at me. “Don’t we have something to discuss?”.

Clearing my throat first, I say, “Yes, I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Privately.”

Carson stares back at me as he rubs the gold Quarter Master ring on his pinkie finger. His face is impassive.

As he opens his mouth to respond, my father states, “There is nothing to ask. You will marry Charlotte and that’s it. Carson knows his place. He would never object. Would you, old boy?”

Carson is average. Everything about him says so. From his white colored hair to his average height. His tux hangs on his body, never adding or taking away from him. His eyes, however, always seem to be alive, but right now they look soulless as he stares at my father. It’s as if he wants to choke him.

“No. I would never object –,” Carson tries to reply but is cut off by my dad once again.

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